"O Captain! my Captain!"
Wilson Library staff members take a moment to honor Robin Williams’s life and to remember his time in the Grand Reading Room, during the filming of Patch Adams.
Image Two: The Filming of the Motion Picture Patch Adams, 2 June 1998, in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Library Photographic Services Photographs #P0087, North Carolina Collection Photographic Archives.
Ug, my heart.
The nature writer has an essay in January’s Harper’s Magazine that details the four years of his childhood during which he says he was routinely raped and molested by a family friend.
this week, this is it. compelling, honest, heartbreaking, real. i can’t pull myself away.
A perfect balance between sweet and saltine.
Read more: Bill Smith’s Atlantic Beach Pie on Food52
This pie. this pie. each time i’ve indulged in this Atlantic Beach Pie this summer (a total of 3 times already), i am drawn to the salty and the sweet and the ways they parallel life’s experiences, and serve as an appropriate backdrop for my own whirlwind summer. Although I there have been no extended stays on the Crystal Coast — where the pie was first crafted — the many other staycations, vacations, and days in between have sufficed in their own unique ways.
feeling weirdly existential and trying to embrace the weight of impermanence the eve before 23. maybe these feelings are the various weights of the last year, six months, three months, slowly falling away. shedding its skin. melting.
i’m glad to have a low key birthday this year.
today after the dentist, as i drove down w. millbrook road, i encountered the strangest, but most inspiring situation. a car was stopped dead in the middle of my lane, as was the car in the next lane. what for? a geese crossing, assisted by the front driver (who got out of her car and ran them across as quickly as she could). we all watched with anticipation and made sure to clap, smile, laugh (even if only to ourselves) upon the successfully crossing of the geese. what shared humanity, even as we each sat enclosed in our vehicles. and the beauty of it all, was the fact that these organic moments where we can slow down still exist once in a while. i’m thankful.
“To see and feel one’s beloved naked for the first time is one of life’s pure, irreducible epiphanies. If there is a true religion in the universe, it must include that truth of contact or be forever hollow. To make love to the one true person who deserves that love is one of the few absolute rewards of being a human being, balancing all of the pain, loss, awkwardness, loneliness, idiocy, compromise, and clumsiness that go with the human condition. To make love to the right person makes up for a lot of mistakes.”
—Dan Simmons, The Rise of Endymion (via observando)
a flying biscuit breakfast. my sweet boss calling to check on me, just to make sure i’m doing alright. m saying, i am so thankful to have you in my life. leaving work early, even if it’s only for a doctor’s appointment. rainstorms all day. the soon-to-be-end of 22.
Camp Lejeune, in Jacksonville, North Carolina, is a toxic paradox, a place where young men and women were poisoned while in the service of their nation. They swore to defend this land, and the land made them sick.
And there are hundreds of Camp Lejeunes across the country, military sites contaminated with all manner of pollutants, from chemical weapon graveyards to vast groundwater deposits of gasoline.
Soldiers know they might be felled by a sniper’s bullet in Baghdad or a roadside bomb in the gullies of Afghanistan. They might even expect it.
But waterborne carcinogens are not an enemy whose ambush they prepare for.
That toxic enemy is far more prevalent than most American suspect, not to mention far more intractable.
That the Department of Defense is the world’s worst polluter is a refrain one often hears from environmentalists, who have long-standing, unsurprising gripes with the military-industrial complex.
But politics aside, the greenies have a convincing point.
Dive into the numbers, as I did, and the Pentagon starts to make Koch Industries look like an organic farm.
“Maybe I’m out of touch, but I’d rather go to an actual shop—preferably a small one—than to a harshly lit superstore, or, worse still, a website. I don’t want to buy my books and my toilet paper and my clothing all under the same roof. I want beauty in my life. I want charm. I want contact with actual people. It is, for me, a large part of what makes life worth living.”
—David Sedaris in an interview with Mary Laura Philpott, editor of the Musing blog at Parnassus Books, Nashville, Tenn Shelf Awareness for Friday, June 13, 2014 | Shelf Awareness (via housingworksbookstore)
crying tears of relief, understanding, pain, and fear in my car as the sky pours out its own soul.
the absolute best (and most personally sustaining) decision of 22 has been finding a wonderful, supportive, yet always challenging and thought-provoking therapist.
After you’ve been to bed together for the first time,
without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance,
the other party very often says to you,
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what’s your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do
sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up
a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you
lying together in completely relaxed positions
like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.
You tell them your story, or as much of your story
as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, until the oh
is just an audible breath, and then of course
there’s some interruption. Slow room service comes up
with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee
and gaze at himself with mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you’ve had time
to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story,
they’re telling you their life story, exactly as they’d intended to all
and you’re saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming
no more than an audible sigh,
as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left,
draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion
and stops breathing forever. Then?
Well, one of you falls asleep
and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth,
and that’s how people burn to death in hotel rooms.